


Mistake

by draculard



Series: Pellaeon/Thrawn 30 Day Ficlets [16]
Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Embarrassment, Language Barrier, M/M, Political Parties, Post-Bilbringi AU, Thrawn Lives AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26473864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: It isn't like the Grand Admiral to slip up quite so publicly.
Relationships: Gilad Pellaeon/Thrawn | Mitth’raw’nuruodo
Series: Pellaeon/Thrawn 30 Day Ficlets [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904581
Comments: 1
Kudos: 37





	Mistake

The party was going swimmingly, as far as rubber-chicken banquets like this ever did. Both Pellaeon and Thrawn had abstained from drowning themselves in alcohol so far, and there were just enough no-nonsense types among the Moffs and Governors to keep the other, more garrulous types in line. The worst part, Pellaeon thought, was that he’d been in his dress uniform for four hours already and knew he’d be in it for at least another four.

He eyed Thrawn, whose uniform was even less comfortable. Pellaeon knew; he’d seen the template when the quartermaster had it made. All those hidden buttons, disguised sealing strips, and high seams had to make it agony to wear for more than a few minutes. But Thrawn was handling it admirably, his posture giving away no discomfort or impatience as the Moffs and Governors prattled on. 

“Of course,” said the Governor before them now, “while the university certainly has some of the best internship programs for the young and ambitious, it is noticeably lacking in the actuarial sciences department.”

“Yes, because I can think of nothing more vital to the Empire’s youth than insurance claims,” scoffed a commander nearby. He buried his nose in a champagne flute and turned away, telegraphing his disinterest in the Governor’s response.

“You have a better idea for the grant, then?” asked the Governor. When the commander didn’t answer, a Moff edged into the conversation.

“I think all this wibbling about grants and universities is distracting from the real issue at hand,” he said, casting a meaningful glance Thrawn’s way. 

“And the real issue is…?” said the Governor.

The Moff’s chest swelled. He puffed himself up and delivered the next few words with finely-tuned dramatic timing. “Complete and utter Imperial dirigisme. And not just over this planet; not just over the backwater planets surrounding it. I’m talking the entire Inner Rim. What do you say, Admiral?”

Pellaeon glanced at Thrawn, whose nose was wrinkled in what might have been an unusually open expression of disgust.

“Dirigisme,” Thrawn repeated. His tone was difficult to read — scornful, perhaps.

“You disagree?” the Moff asked, eyebrows raised. He seemed genuinely surprised; Pellaeon could tell he was already mentally calculating a way to walk back his statement.

“I can’t say whether I agree or disagree,” Thrawn said. There was a slight pause; then, with his face and body language back in neutral, he said, “I’m afraid I don’t know that word.”

An awkward silence descended over the handful of officers and dignitaries. Some of them made quick, nervous eye contact with each other; others half-smiled before they realized Thrawn wasn’t joking. Once they caught on, their faces turned pale and they, like the commander before them, busied themselves with their drinks. Through it all, Thrawn kept his head held high, an expression of placid dignity on his face while he waited for someone to fill him in.

“Complete social and economic control, sir,” Pellaeon said. “It’s rather an antiquated term. It comes from Old Alderaanian, I think.”

He looked at the gathered dignitaries, as if seeking confirmation, but really he was studying their faces. They were all very careful to show no judgment or contempt; as he predicted, they jumped on the out Pellaeon gave them at once.

“Yes, quite an old term,” said the Moff to Thrawn reassuringly. The Governor laid his hand on Thrawn’s arm and said,

“You’d have to take Old Alderaanian in primary school to know it. Of course, they don’t even teach that anymore, what with the, ah…”

Politely, Thrawn shook the Governor off. “How do you intend to achieve this goal?” he asked.

The Moff who’d suggested it brightened at once and handed his champagne flute off to somebody else so he could pull a folded piece of flimsi from his pocket. The group fractured apart as he read from it, his dramatic diction suffering a little and turning into a drone. Pellaeon watched, half-listening to the Moff’s uninspired bullet points, as the rest of the dignitaries broke off and left.

“...and of course through the iron fist of control,” the Moff said, “no one will dare to rise up against us, particularly not in this sector. You see, since the victories at Bilbringi and Tangrene—”

“Tangrene was a feint,” said Pellaeon, his voice perhaps a bit harsher than necessary. He took perverse joy in watching the Moff’s face close off; taking advantage of the sudden silence, Pellaeon touched the small of Thrawn’s back and nodded toward the exit. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said to the Moff, “we have to make a call.”

He removed his hand from Thrawn’s back before the Moff’s eyes had time to linger on the gesture. Together, he and Thrawn turned away, making their way economically to the edge of the room. Pellaeon rebuffed all attempts at conversation as they passed, and finally they were out of the damned banquet hall and alone together in the blissfully silent, wonderfully empty hall.

“You’re not fluent in Basic, sir?” Pellaeon asked at once, eyebrows raised.

“I am quite fluent, thank you, Captain,” said Thrawn a bit stiffly. “It is not my first language. Some mistakes or misunderstandings are inevitable.”

Pellaeon nodded, thinking back over the evidence. He’d never noticed an accent — indeed, Thrawn’s voice had always been Core World-neutral, with cultured tones that could fit in easily without being strictly identified as any particular planet. But he had noticed a strange cadence to Thrawn’s voice, a difference in pacing that wasn’t quite an accent but, now that he thought about it, did perhaps indicate that Thrawn had grown up speaking a very different language from the one he spoke now. 

In particular, he remembered the day they first visited Wayland, when Thrawn had used the word ‘sessile’ a moment before pointing to a temple and calling it ‘that palace thing.’

“It really is rather an obscure word,” he said, almost apologetically. He dropped the ‘sir’ too, to emphasize the fact that they were alone, and this wasn’t necessarily ‘Captain Pellaeon’ speaking. 

“I know it is,” said Thrawn, looking perhaps a bit amused. “Is this what you pulled me away to speak about? I didn’t need rescuing, you know.”

“I thought perhaps you might appreciate a break,” Pellaeon said. 

“Not to discuss my vocabulary,” said Thrawn firmly. He glanced up and down the hallway for a moment, his face unreadable, and then reached inside his tunic to adjust the tight bands of his shirt garters. “Dirigisme,” he said absently, trying the word out. “I’m fortunate to travel with such a well-read first officer.”

Pellaeon flushed at that. “Yes, well. They really do teach Old Alderaanian in schools, you know. Or at least, they did.”

Thrawn hummed, adjusting his other garter. When he was finished, Pellaeon stepped forward, batting Thrawn’s hands out of the way, and fixed his tunic for him, taking time to make sure the medals on his chest were all perfectly aligned. He slipped a light-pen out of his pocket, using it to measure the centimeters between the medals and the upper line of Thrawn’s breast pocket.

He endured Thrawn’s amused gaze the whole time. 

“Such a stickler for regulations,” Thrawn murmured as Pellaeon pulled away, his tone of voice unmistakably teasing. 

“Well, one of us has to be,” Pellaeon said. He eyed Thrawn’s medals a moment longer before tucking his light-pen away. “We’d better go back. They’ll miss us soon.”

“They miss us already,” said Thrawn dismissively. “And we have more important things to attend to.”

Pellaeon raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

Thrawn met Pellaeon’s eyes with a perfectly stoic face. “My pronunciation isn’t quite right,” he said, indicating his lips with one raised finger. “I think I’m in need of some guidance, preferably from a native speaker.”

When Pellaeon didn’t say anything right away, Thrawn clasped his hands behind his back and said,

“Alone.”

They met each other’s eyes. Pellaeon felt a blush rising to his cheeks. He looked back over his shoulder at the door to the banquet hall, firmly closed, and turned back to Thrawn.

“Well,” he huffed, “if you insist.”


End file.
